The towhees around our house are quite friendly. Not only do they not avoid me, some seem downright eager for conversation. Within just a few feet, they stop and look at me, then hop about in the ferns and moss and rhododendrons without wariness or alarm. Late in the afternoon two days ago, while I was watering the hostas not far from the birdbath, a male with beautiful markings alternated between singing and splashing, almost as if he meant to let me know he approved, of everything. I suppose I could read up on their behavior. But I would far rather discover it in this accidental manner. In so doing, I might even discover more of my own.
June 18, 2019
Still and Again
A towhee is nesting in the creeping jenny behind the house.
I wonder what she thinks of the moonlight this early dawn hour.
The thirtieth day of May. Thirty-seven degrees. The silent firs.
When I say think, I mean feel. When I say feel, I do.
The heart is a tongue. She comes to the well. Looks down.
Is stilled by the shepherd’s song.
How long have you been down there? she wants to know.
And the shepherd replies, As long as your thirst.
Then, said she, we are part of a fairy tale?
Of course! But now he’s standing by her side.
And there’s a trembling of wings.
This is our work.
Recently Banned Literature, May 30, 2018
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